


Sam's horrible, terrible, no good, very dyspraxic day

by 8BeautifulChaosGirl8



Series: The Life of Dyspraxic Sam [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean is a Good Brother, Disability, Disabled Sam, Dyspraxic Sam, Gen, John is a good father, Neurodivergent Sam, Neurodiversity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 06:03:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6788938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/8BeautifulChaosGirl8/pseuds/8BeautifulChaosGirl8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam struggles with his invisible disability and it all blows up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sam's horrible, terrible, no good, very dyspraxic day

 

Sam’s hand bumped against the corner of the open drawer, making him drop his glass of orange juice. The cup smashed. Juice and shards of glass sprayed across the floor

“Fuuuuuuuck!” Sam felt like screaming. Frustration bubbled up in his throat, thick like tears, red like the blood that welled in his palm as he tried to pick up the broken pieces.

Of course Dean came in just then, finding him on the floor, hissing in pain, surrounded by glass and spilt juice, blood dripping from his hand.

“*** Sammy, what happened?” Dean ran for the first aid kit.

“I was born stupid and clumsy, _that’s_ what happened.” Sam grimaced as his brother dabbed antiseptic on the wound. Dean curled Sam’s fingers over in a fist so he pressed a cotton wad to the cut, stemming the flow.

“Bad day huh?”

“No I count spilling glue all over my homework, walking into a door in front of my whole class, tripping 3 times on the way home and then slicing my palm open as a good day.” Sam replied, glaring at his brother.

“Wow, you’re pissy. Have you been doing those exercises the therapist gave you?”

Sam skewered him with the bitchiest of bitch faces. "Between hunting, training, research, school work, running tech all week and just generally taking time to breathe, no surprisingly I _haven’t_ found the time to stand on one foot and bounce a ball”

“Your coordination isn’t going to improve if you don’t do your exercises. Why don’t you use that timetable Dr Stevenson gave you if you’re struggling to manage your time?”

Sam scoffed, rolling his eyes “You know you’re my _brother_ right? Not my mother”

“Hey I’m just trying to help…”

“Well I don’t need your help! I’m not a baby”

“Sam…”

“Leave me alone, Dean. Even spastics need alone time y’know.”

Dean’s reply was drowned by the sound of Sam’s slamming door. “***it.” He bounced his fist against the wall but there was no anger in it. Just empty frustration.

===

When John walked in the door he could feel the tension of the house, like simmering in the air. The fact that his oldest was glaring at the television was also a dead giveaway.

“What’s up? Daisy Duke not call you back?”

Dean scoffed “Nah. Samantha’s sulking.”

“Dean, don’t call your brother names”

“He can’t hear me.”

“Yeah well I can and I’m telling you to knock it off”

Dean pinched his lips but kept quiet.

“What’s up with him?”

“His dyspraxia been worse than usual and he’s all pissy about it.”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

“I wouldn’t have thrown a bitch fit about someone trying to help me out”

“Alright, alright un-bunch those panties. I’ll go and talk to him”

John rapped his knuckles on the door to Sam and Dean’s shared room.

“Sam? It’s Dad open up the door”

 

With all the unwarranted offense an adolescent could posses, Sam groaned, shuffling to his feet to open the door. The lock clicked and the door swung open. Sam said nothing, just sloped back inside and threw himself down on the bed. John closed the door and took a seat at the edge of the bed.

“Wow, I hadn’t noticed how tall you’ve gotten Sammy. Must be popular with the girls huh?” John tried awkwardly to start what he knew was a “walking on eggshells” conversation. From the look on his son’s face he could tell he’d missed the mark.

“Yeah Dad, girls love the drunk octopus look. Now I have an extra foot of height to walk into things with.”

“Alright Sam out with it. I know your dyspraxia can be tough to handle...”

“No you don’t know! You don’t know what it’s like to know the answer and everyone think you're stupid because you stutter over it. You don’t know what it’s like to know how to do something and not physically be able to make your body do it. You don’t know what it’s like to have worked really hard on something and then *** it all up because of one stupid accident! Girls don’t like me Dad, no one does! Because I’m the freak with a knife in his bag and bruises everywhere. I’m the kid that slapped someone in the face reaching for a book in the library. I’m the too big, too much, too loud moose boy who comes in and breaks things...

“Sam...”

“I’ve seen how you and Dean look at me, Dad. How your eyes go all stupid and sad when I can’t get the safety clip off my pistol. When I have to get Dean to finish digging because my stupid muscles are so *** tired they’re like noodles, he looks at me like a sick puppy. Like some poor lost broken thing.” Sam’s voice is weakening and he keeps swiping at his eyes. “I hate it so much”

John does the only thing he can. He opens his arms and lets his son fall apart in them. He wraps him up in them, surprised by how much there is to Sam now. His shivering back is broad and strong, scarred and bruised.

“I’m so sorry Sam. I’m sorry I don’t know how to help you. I’m sorry the work we do is so hard. I’m sorry you never get a break. I’m sorry we move around so much we can never find you a proper therapist. I’m sorry we’re too poor to get you better resources. I’m so sorry I sometimes can’t look you in the eye without thinking of your disability. I’m sorry I don’t have answers.”

Sam pulls back, swiping awkwardly at his eyes.

“But you are going to get better”

“Dad, it’s not like that. I can’t...”

“I’m not talking about getting cured. I know this isn’t a stomach bug or broken leg. But you can get better. You can get stronger. You can let us know when you need a break or extra help. You can get more control over yourself.”

Sam manages a wan smirk “Why do I have the feeling this means a more rigorous training schedule?”

“Because no one quits this life. But Winchesters never leave a man behind.” John gets up, claps him on the back. “You’re gonna clean up your face, and rest yourself for a bit. Then come out and apologise to your brother. Don’t take too long, we’re going to go out for dinner and hit up the shooting range.” Without really thinking, he tosses Sam the box of tissues from the bedside table. ***. Way to cap off a pep talk John. Throw something at the kid who struggles with co ordination. He holds his breath, apologies ready on his tongue.

But Sam moves fluidly, naturally. His hands come up, close around the box and bring it down to his lap. He turns away, forbidding his father to comment, but the grin on his face is unmissable.


End file.
